


Sparkplug

by Thatmalu



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fucked Up, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mutilation, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Revenge, Self-Mutilation, Slurs, Stabbing, Torture, flaying, mentions of animal abuse, psychedelics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25560640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatmalu/pseuds/Thatmalu
Summary: *Dead Dove: Do Not Eat*“Why don’t you show the doctor here how you’d take off someone’s face?”He leaned down, and Richie almost stopped him when he thought Eddie was about to stab Patrick again, but instead cut Patrick’s right wrist free from the chair with the knife that he still had in his hand. Patrick stared dumbly at Eddie, who flipped the knife around and held the handle out for Patrick to grab.“Why don’t you show him on you?”______________________________________A revenge fic influenced by Hannibal
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	Sparkplug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fuji09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuji09/gifts).



> **TW in tags! Should be taken seriously!**
> 
> While still working tirelessly on my happy, smutty, Reddie fics, dear Fuji inspired me to write this graphic garbage after a short conversation about Hannibal. Without further ado, I present my attempt at a short torture fic.
> 
> Streddie can be read as either platonic Stanley or a throuple; reader decides.
> 
> En...joy?
> 
> Fic title inspired by .Sparkplug by Idiot Pilot.

Two seats down from where Patrick sat was a small man in what looked like his Sunday brunch best, with short curly hair and rimless glasses. This little man at the bar looked as delicate as a bird, like a little canary in a button up, and Patrick was keen to rustle some feathers. Especially if those feathers ended up bloody, torn, and broken.

Something should have set Patrick off about the young man right away. There were never any strangers in Derry; everyone knew who everyone was. In the summertime, sure, some out-of-towners would drive through for a look, get the creeps, and smartly drive back home. But it was March in Maine and this guy just looked too… _clean_ to be here.

Patrick knew how to fix that.

“What’s your drink?” he asked the smaller man at the bar, who had been giving him _that look_ since he had walked in.

“Pinot grigio,” the man replied, smiling slightly.

God, what a fucking cunt. Patrick stifled a nasty remark about his pussy drink choice, thinking about how much sweeter this man would be to ruin. He could already see it now: ripping his stupid fucking cardigan off just to use it to tie his wrists behind his back and shove his face into the floorboards, ass up as fear would begin to sink in. That was one of Patrick’s favorite moments, the flash of horror on their faces when they realized what was about to happen, that this was a terrible, deadly mistake.

He’d never kill them, though. Patrick could honestly say he had only killed one person in his entire thirty years on this earth. It was surprising how… _empty_ it felt, after the life had drained from their eyes, jaw slackened in a ghost of their final scream of terror. Really, that’s what was taken from Patrick; their fear. If he couldn’t destroy someone to near completion, make them _wish_ they were dead only to realize that they’d be haunted for the rest of their life with Patrick’s scars on their skin, in their body, in their very soul, then… what was the point? Killing just took the fun away, it seemed. It was the suffering that he craved.

Four drinks in, Patrick caught his first red flag. After ordering another rum and coke, realization sunk in that this stranger had not seemed to come close to finishing his first glass of wine. In fact, Patrick was in mind to guess the man was _pretending_ to drink from his glass and not a single drop had moved past his lips.

No, no… this wouldn’t do.

Even if this little bitch was trying to stay sober, Patrick knew how to handle him when they got back. 

“Why don’t you drive us home?” Patrick drawled, trying to keep his sinister intentions hidden behind his smirk. “You’re good to drive, right?”

“Of course,” he (Mike? Jeff? Dan? Maybe Dan) said. Something flashed over his eyes, like a moment of panic that Patrick didn’t fail to miss. “I mean, I should be. You want to head back to my place? I’m staying at - ”

“Mine,” Patrick said firmly. “Trust me. I’ll have everything we’ll need.” _Things to pry you open, destroy you from the inside out, tearing into you while I watch your blood drip down your thighs and my arm while I feel your insides._

Patrick adjusted himself in his jeans, already bulging against his denim just thinking about what Dan would sound like when his screams were muffled into a greased rag, watching his jizz drip down Dan’s thighs or his back and mixing fluidly with whatever blood Patrick had drawn out of him. Watching him shake on the floor as he processed whatever Patrick had finished doing, knowing full well he could never tell anyone. 

One person had gone to the police, just last summer; Adrian Mellon, his name only stuck in Patrick’s head because of the annoying ordeal that followed his attack. It wasn’t planned, running into the young man on the bridge as Patrick stumbled home one day, enraged, horny, and impulsive. He had barely even noticed him smoking, leaning casually over the edge of the railings, until he heard a soft, “Hey there, handsome.”

Stupidly, Patrick allowed himself to let his rage take over him, swinging his fist into Adrian’s face, his cock twitching at the _thwat_ and light crunch of Adrian’s nose breaking against Patrick’s knuckles. The faggot should have been _thanking_ Patrick that all he did was break his nose and fuck him bloody. Things usually ended up much, much worse by the time he was done. 

To Adrian’s horror and Patrick’s delight, all the Derry cops did was laugh in his face, telling him to run back and make-up with his “queer lover” and maybe he had it coming to him.

The best part of the whole ordeal was that Patrick was sure confident now that no one else would run to the cops in this cesspool of a town after watching Adrian’s flop. Especially not after he was killed just weeks later for being the faggot he was. Still, planning was key. Patrick always had a plan, always had an out. Having an out was key.

Right now… Patrick needed an out.

That something _off_ that Patrick had sensed earlier was getting stronger, and he stopped as he walked out towards the stranger’s car. The way this Dan was shifting with the car keys of his obvious rental, his eyes darting around nervously, and not in that about-to-get-fucked-by-a-stranger way that people sometimes had. Patrick stopped short about five feet from the passenger’s door. His excuse was ready, and the second after it spilled from his mouth he knew he had done right, because Dan began to panic, trying to convince Patrick to come with him, but it was no good.

Maybe another time, little canary. 

Days go by, and Patrick almost forgets about that little sketchy cardigan bitch. He’s been working and jerking off too much and feels a bit cheated, so he goes back to town, already drunk from his impatience. As he approached one of his familiar hot spots, where they overpoured and undercharged, a gangly young man was getting thrown out of the door by the bartender he towered over, so forcefully that his long body was thrown forward and his hands had to catch him on the sidewalk. The door slammed shut behind him as he began laughing hysterically, staying on the ground and just rolling around to sit on his ass, leaning back against the brick of the building. Just laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

There was something Patrick found oddly attractive about finding someone that seemed just as deranged as he was. He couldn’t help but have his curiosity peaked, rolling back on the balls of his feet to stop himself from stumbling into the bar. The large man was muttering incomprehensibly until Patrick leaned closer, stirring the man to snap his head up.

His face looked familiar, but perhaps Patrick couldn’t place it in his drunken stupor. The eyes, though… they were startlingly intense, even above the wide, delighted grin.

“You’d think a cesspool bar like this would allow a man to gracefully offer compensation for some little skanks time.”

“Carl doesn't take kindly to prostitutes,” Patrick muttered, knowing all too well just how Carl took Patrick soliciting here in his youth to trick old pervs into the woods to play with.

The man on the ground made some kind of sputtering sound as he laughed again. “I offered that stupid cunt a free abortion for when I was done with her. I’m handy with a coat hanger, she would have been _fine_. What the fuck ever. I have something to play with at home.” The man sighed, lifting himself up clumsily from the ground and Patrick… well, Patrick was intrigued.

“Your old lady waiting for you?” he baited.

The stranger’s grin grew wider, more sinister, leaning down to speak in a low voice.

“This stupid bitch ain’t no lady. I’ve been trying to break this fucking whore for a week.”

These words were reaching parts of Patrick’s brain that stirred with fire and aching. 

“Do you need help?” The words blurted out before he could process them, before he could understand that this man was revealing too much too easily. The man’s left eyebrow cocked. Patrick grinned. “No one leaves my hands unbroken.”

Back in his youth, Patrick spent a great many times sharing his victims with Henry or Vic, but neither of them quite shared his… passion for pain. There was something quite exhilarating about sharing someone though, two personalities sharing a toy, who wouldn’t know what was coming next. Yes, sharing someone could really do a number on them. That would be a night they’d never forget.

This guy, Josh, talked all about the shit he was doing to his plaything while he walked Patrick back into the neighborhood. Josh went on about how he took his time fucking the little thing, inserting anything he could think of instead while fucking his face so hard the guy threw up and passed out. When he finally got down to it, he was bleeding so bad that fucking him was like “a slip n’slide.” It was exactly the shit Patrick was craving, not unlike what he had done in the past, and Josh had this little guy tied up in a bedroom for days now.

“You should’ve put him in the bathroom so he knows his fucking place. Right next to the shitter.”

The house was dark when they got there, and Josh kept the lights off leading Patrick down the hall into the bedroom. Faint muffling noises were escaping through the crack under the door, and Patrick was already getting excited to see his new plaything. He followed Josh in, only a small lamp flooding dull, yellow light on a small man who appeared to have his hands tied behind his back at the base of the bed.

“Go ahead and take a closer look,” said Josh excitably.

The small screams coming muffled through the duct tape on the little man’s face were hoarse and desperate, tears flooding down his face already. He was small and meek, petite, his hair disarray. Patrick kneeled down and looked into his eyes. They were large, doe-brown eyes that were reminiscent of small puppies Patrick would strangle as they squealed or had shoved in his refrigerator in his younger days. Something stirred in the back of Patrick’s head, and he couldn’t help but think that he had seen eyes like this before…

Wait.

He _had_ seen these eyes before. This was the asthmatic kid from his high school, the one Patrick had given a lasting graduation present during the last summer he had seen him here in Derry. He had sure done a number to him back then… what the hell was he doing back?

“Where did you say you picked him up?” Patrick asked slowly, turning his face to look at Josh behind him.

But when he turned around, someone else had come into the room, someone Patrick had almost forgotten about, that cardigan wearing man who Patrick almost took home the week before. Just as he had gotten out, “Dan - ?”, he heard a small ripping noise and turned back just as he felt a pinch in his neck.

Eddie had ripped his duct tape off, his hands apparently having been hidden behind him without any bondage, and was pushing a syringe into Patrick’s neck, a sensation of calm quickly washing over the panic as he realized what was happening. The last thing he saw was Eddie smirking at him before Patrick fell to the floor.

“Dan? You told him your name is _Dan_? That is barely a name change, Stan.”

“He didn’t recognize me last week, did he? Besides, what stupid fucking name did you give him, Richie?”

“Josh, which is a helluva lot better than something that rhymes with my own fucking name.”

Hot rage was already pumping through Richie’s veins as he stared down at Patrick’s twitching body. He swallowed it down so he could look over at Eddie carefully, free from all of his bondages and wiping adhesive from his lips. There were still markings left there from the duct tape Stan had wrapped around his face while he was waiting for Richie to bring Patrick here. As angry as he was, nothing matched the fury he could feel radiating from Eddie’s small body.

Before he realized what was happening, Eddie had lunged out, and Richie saw his little fist go to pound into Patrick’s stomach. At first, he thought he had just punched him, but he heard a small _pop_ of skin breaking and blood starting to spread through his shirt. Eddie lifted his arm up again, but Stan had grabbed a hold of him before he could stab Patrick again.

“ _Stan, get off me!_ ” he spat, all feral while he fought against Stan’s hold.

“This is why I told Richie you shouldn’t be here!” Stan hissed. “You’re gonna end up killing him! Richie, _can you do something_?”

Something finally snapped in his head and Richie moved to place his large hand on Eddie’s chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding so fiercely that Richie worried he might have a heart attack.

“Eddie, Eddie… _Eds!_ ”

Like a switch went off in his head, Eddie’s body relaxed, causing him to almost fall back from where Stanley was pulling him. He looked up at Richie and his heart wretched in his chest at all the pain in Eddie’s eyes, all the pain that Patrick had put there years ago. Richie put his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, turning him to face him more clearly.

“Eddie, do you still want to go through with the plan?” he asked quietly.

“Rich!” Stan snapped behind Eddie. “We can’t - ”

“Stan, please!” Richie shot back, not taking his eyes off of Eddie. He lowered his voice back down to a soft tone. “Eds, this is your call. But you remember what you told me? What Patrick had said to you?”

Of course Eddie would remember; those words had stained his brain like bleach, and Richie would never forget when Eddie had confided the secret to him. How Patrick held a cold blade against Eddie’s throat, fingers already tearing into him while he pressed Eddie’s head down, telling him how by the time Patrick was done, Eddie would be begging for death.

That’s exactly why killing Patrick would be too merciful. He didn’t deserve the easy way out.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie croaked, his arms relaxing a little. “I got carried away.”

“It’s ok. Just… follow what Stan said, and he should still be alive in the morning.”

“And trust me,” Stan said behind Eddie. “He won’t forget tonight.”

Richie cupped Eddie’s face in his hands, kissing him softly, breathing him in and wishing so desperately that he could take all of Eddie’s pain and scars away.

This would have to do.

Waiting for Patrick to wake up on his own would take too long, so once Stan and Richie secured him to the kitchen chair, Stan was ready to crack open some sniffing salts under his nose to wake him up. Eddie stood back, leaning against the kitchen table of their rental home, scratching behind the ears of the Pomeranian, Sprinkles, who belonged to the homeowner. It was keeping him calm, so neither Stan nor Richie said anything. Besides, the yappy little fucker would be barking nonstop if they had hid him somewhere in the house.

“Time to make the donuts,” Richie said, taking the little tablet from Stan and snapping it under Patrick’s nose. Just as he got a whiff of the strong odor himself, Patrick’s body jumped like an electrical current had gone through it, his wrists rubbing roughly against the bondages keeping him to his chair.

“What - what the fucking hell?” he breathed, frantic and desperate in his movements.

Right on cue, Stan shoved a breathing mask in his face and they watched Patrick sharply inhale the concoction of psychedelic drugs that Stanley had created. They watched as his pupils slowly blew out, his eyes going all black. Stan removed the apparatus, revealing Patrick’s frozen and shocked face before he completely went hysterical, laughing madly as his body shook in the chair.

“There we go,” Stan muttered, smirking to himself. “How do you feel, Patrick?”

Patrick kept laughing, trying to calm himself down enough to talk. “I feel fucking _great_ , doc. You have _got_ to write me a script for these drugs.”

“That’s great, Patrick,” Stan continued calmly. “If you want more drugs, all you have to do is listen to what we say.”

“Capisce,” Patrick giggled, looking more deranged than any of them could remember.

“Do you know what you’ve done to people, Patrick? People like little Eddie here?”

Richie tensed as Patrick’s eyes wandered over to Eddie, whose facial expression did not change.

“I bet you’re real proud of what you’ve done, aren’t you Patrick?”

Patrick chuckled, looking back up at Stanley. “Ohhh, you have no idea, doc. You can’t really know someone unless you see them for what’s inside and I -” he paused, grinning sinisterly at Eddie. “I sure got inside, all right. I bet I knew you better than you know yourself”

Before he could help himself, Richie grabbed Patrick’s face roughly, squeezing his jaw tight and forcing him to look into Richie’s eyes. “You think that’s fucking funny, don’t you, you piece of shit? What you did to him? That Portland girl whose skin you peeled off?”

“Patrick.”

Stan and Richie both froze, turning to look back at Eddie, whom neither of them expected to speak during any of this. He didn’t sound scared or even angry as he gently placed Sprinkles down and stepped forward toward his old attacker, staring down at him coldly.

“Why don’t you show the doctor here how you’d take off someone’s face?”

He leaned down, and Richie almost stopped him when he thought Eddie was about to stab Patrick again, but instead cut Patrick’s right wrist free from the chair with the knife that he still had in his hand. Patrick stared dumbly at Eddie, who flipped the knife around and held the handle out for Patrick to grab.

“Why don’t you show him on _you_?”

Richie and Stan both watched carefully as Patrick took the knife from Eddie’s hand, Eddie taking a step back to glare down at him coldly. They both remained tense on either side of Patrick, debating internally if they should tell Eddie to back off and fight the knife back from Patrick. The silence broke again when Patrick guffawed and did not hesitate to _stick the knife into his cheek_.

The blade made a small plucking noise breaking the skin, blood already dripping down the glistening metal and down to Patrick’s fingers as he turned the handle in a scooping motion under his flesh and muscle, breaking it off like one would take off the skin of an apple with a peel. A hot glob of meat fell to the ground with a _splat_ , and Sprinkles ran over, her little feet pitter-pattering against the linoleum floor, immediately taking small bites of the chunk of Patrick’s cheek. Stan looked down at the gore with disgust while Patrick barked out like a hyena. 

“That’s good, Patrick,” Eddie cooed encouragingly. “Sprinkles probably could have some more.”

Not sure if he should be more disgusted or impressed, Richie watched on as Patrick dug into his skin over and over, soft and sickening squelching noises issuing from the blade every time he scraped away. Strings of muscle twitched near his bared teeth, and a single artery sputtered out from a flap of skin, spraying onto Eddie’s face. His laughs started resigning to little groans as he slapped each piece of his face down to the floor in a tiny pile of gore that Sprinkles kept lapping up. 

“I’ve got to admit,” Stan said quietly, his face contorted with disgust at the viscera at his feet. He checked his watch, likely timing in his head a good point to call 911 and bolt. “This is better than expected.”

Patrick made some sort of grunting noise, his jaw shifting oddly under his exposed fiber and bone. Richie felt a surge of panic and knocked the knife out of Patrick’s hand, pressing it back down to the arm of the chair. 

“Richie, what -” Eddie started angrily.

“He’s gonna start bugging out!” Richie argued. “Look at him!”

Truthfully, Patrick was still _calm,_ but his eyes went cross as his head lolled around lazily, like a teeterboard. He seemed to be attempting to look at Eddie, and Richie held his arm out as a barrier between the two, his protective instincts taking over. 

“Eds, keep back.”

“Wait,” Stan said suddenly, bending down to pick up the knife. “I still think it would be a good idea to go for my original idea.”

“Which was?” Eddie asked, his eyes locked on Patrick.

“Take his biggest weapon away. Make sure he can’t experience pleasure ever again. Richie, would you like to do it?”

“Why him?” Eddie snapped, finally turning to look at him.

“I just - I didn’t know if you’d want to - you know…”

“Eddie, let me do it,” Richie said, but Eddie still looked livid. “Sweetheart,” he said more softly, which finally brought Eddie to look at him.

“I just want to hurt him back so bad, Richie,” Eddie sobbed quietly.

“I know, little love,” Richie whispered, gently taking Eddie's hand, ignoring the sounds of Patrick gurgling on his own blood and spit. “But I want you to still have part of your soul after this.”

He held his other hand out to Stan, giving Eddie a meaningful look, staring back into his large brown eyes in the dim darkness of the room. Finally, Eddie turned and gave Stan the slightest of nods, and he dropped the knife in Richie’s hand.

“You need to tie his hand back down,” Stan pointed out.

They pressed Patrick’s arm back firmly onto the armrest and strapped it down again, all while Patrick chortled and spoke incomprehensibly, his noises coming out in wet sputters instead of words. 

“Hold his head back, Stan. Eddie, step back.”

Both of them obeyed, and Richie waited for Stan to pull Patrick’s head back by the hair, eliciting what sounded like a growl from Patrick’s throat. His body shifted in the chair, and Richie motioned for Stan to grab Patrick more tightly around the chest while he roughly yanked Patrick’s pants down. Sprinkles was still there, going to town on the bits of Patrick’s face.

“What - what if he starts waking up?” Eddie muttered behind him.

“No, he’ll be out of it for a while,” Stan assured him, his face leaning as far away from Patrick as possible as to not be bit. 

Richie quickly checked to make sure Patrick’s appendage was not in Eddie’s sight, not wanting to have him triggered further. He took a deep breath, pulling out a latex glove from his pocket to put on the hand he’d have to grab Patrick’s dick with. 

“Are you worried about your fingerprints on his penis?”

“Would _you_ want to grab it, Stan?” Stan grunted in response. “That’s what I thought.”

In what was supposed to be a quick motion, Richie grabbed the flaccid member between Patrick’s thighs and pulled it up, flicking his wrist to thrust the blade into it, expecting a clean sweep through, but it only slit about half way through.

“Shit!” Richie gasped, trying to hack the knife into the flesh again. Patrick was groaning above him, but Stan kept encouraging him.

“He’s too out of it, you’re fine,” he said. “Just fucking keep going.”

“God it feels like fucking chicken,” Richie groaned, and he wasn’t sure why he said it out loud, but as he was sawing the knife through what was left, it _did_ kind of feel like slicing into a moist chicken breast, which made him kind of want to puke, but he was so angry at the shit Patrick had done he hacked it into him over and over until finally the damn thing came off.

“Jesus, that’s disgusting,” Stan moaned, letting Patrick go.

Patrick’s head rolled forward, blood pouring down from his face, all bone and Cheshire grin, a wheezy, wet laugh coming out of him. Something in Richie snapped and he plunged himself forward, grabbing onto Patrick’s wet, open face roughly, pressing his fingers into his jaw bone, feeling the soggy exposed muscle there as he pried Patrick’s mouth open to shove his own dick down his throat.

“Swallow it, you fucking shithead!” Richie screamed, snapping Patrick’s jaw shut and forcing his head back until he felt his throat muscles undulating to indicate he took his own cock down.

“Jesus,” came a small whisper behind him.

Richie turned to look at Eddie, his face still splattered with blood and shock. Richie’s chest became lighter, his muscles relaxing as he stepped towards Eddie to comfort him.

“I’m sorry, Eds. I got a little carried away.”

Eddie looked up at Richie and the darkness of the room seemed to dissipate with how brightly Eddie was staring up at him, a wide, white smile haloed with red. Richie grinned back and soon felt Eddie rush into his arms, kissing him passionately with that taste of rust and iron on his lips.

“Is this - is this really the time for that?”

Richie simply flipped Stan off while Eddie ran over and squeezed Stan tightly, planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek, reminiscent of a lipstick stain on his skin.

“Thanks for this, Stan.”

“Right, well, if we don’t leave and call 911 now, he’ll probably bleed out. We want this prick to suffer not die, right?”

Eddie nodded firmly, taking one last look at Patrick, who seemed so lost and out of it, completely grotesque to match the evil within. With one last moment to spare, Eddie hocked a single fat loogie in his face. Deep down, they all knew and hoped he was left with nothing but a short life of at least a fraction of the suffering and shame he had caused others. 

Richie reached out to wrap an arm around Eddie’s waist, loving the way he smiled back up at him, the deadweights lifted off of his shoulders for the first time in almost a decade. He leaned down, lifting Eddie’s chin up to offer one last, blood-stained kiss.

“Let’s go home, you little psycho.”


End file.
